Chapter 31 : Awkward
The cortex doors felt heavier than I remembered.
Five days of isolation had done nothing to prepare me for this moment. I'd trained with my new fusion power, eaten my way through the recovery hunger, and convinced myself that returning to STAR Labs wouldn't be the emotional minefield I feared.
I was wrong.
Caitlin stood near the medical station, reviewing something on a tablet. She wore the white lab coat I'd seen a hundred times before, her hair pulled back in the practical style she preferred for work. Nothing about her appearance had changed.
Everything about seeing her had changed.
And then there was Ronnie.
He stood beside her—close, comfortable, his arm draped around her waist with the casual intimacy of someone who belonged there. Tall, dark-haired, the kind of handsome that came from good genes and regular exercise. The man she'd mourned for two years. The man she'd chosen over me.
He looked up as I entered. His expression shifted from curiosity to recognition.
"You must be Harry." He crossed the room with an extended hand. "Cait's told me about you."
The handshake was firm. His grip carried the confidence of someone who'd never had to doubt his place in the world. His smile seemed genuine—no hostility, no territorial posturing, just the politeness of meeting a colleague.
Does he know we dated? Does he know she told me she loved me three weeks ago?
"Good to meet you," I said. "Heard a lot."
"All good, I hope." He released my hand and stepped back toward Caitlin. His arm found her waist again. "She mentioned you've been helping with security consulting. Sorry I wasn't around to meet you earlier—recovering from the whole 'being on fire for two years' thing takes a while."
"Understandable." I kept my voice level. Professional. "How's the adjustment?"
"Getting there. The memories are still fragmented, but..." He glanced at Caitlin with obvious affection. "Having support helps."
She smiled at him. The same smile she'd given me a dozen times during our better moments.
I looked away before either of them could see my reaction.
Consultant mode felt like armor.
I retreated into the role I'd cultivated over months of careful infiltration—security analyst, protocol reviewer, the outside perspective that asked useful questions without getting personally involved. The work was real enough. The Harvest investigation had stalled during the Firestorm crisis, and Cisco wanted fresh eyes on the accumulated data.
"Seven victims now," Cisco said, pulling up the case files on the main display. "All criminals, all depowered, all consistent with the same methodology."
"Pattern recognition?"
"That's the problem." He scrolled through crime scene photos I knew intimately. "The first five followed a clear pattern—ambush, isolation, direct extraction. But the last two are different. One looked like a meta turf war. The other was staged to look like someone different entirely."
"Method evolution," I suggested. "The Harvest learned from being tracked."
"Or there's more than one meta-hunter." Cisco frowned at the data. "Which would explain the variance but creates new problems."
I contributed analysis with the detached precision of someone who hadn't personally committed every crime on the display. Identified patterns I'd created. Suggested avenues I knew would dead-end. Played the role of helpful outsider while the team investigated my own activities.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
Across the cortex, Caitlin worked at her medical station. I felt her eyes on me occasionally—brief glances that ended the moment I turned in her direction. The weight of unspoken history hung between us like smoke.
Ronnie noticed. I could tell from the way his attention shifted whenever Caitlin looked my way, the subtle assessment of a man reading a situation he didn't fully understand.
Does he suspect something? Or is he just naturally protective of what he considers his?
Neither option made this easier.
Cisco found me in the equipment room during what I'd intended to be a brief escape from the cortex's tension.
"Hey." He leaned against the doorframe, blocking casual exit. "You doing okay, man?"
The question was direct. Cisco didn't do subtle well—his emotions lived on his face, his words came without filters, his concern was genuine rather than performative.
"No," I admitted. "But I will be."
"For what it's worth, I thought you were good for her." He crossed his arms, expression serious. "Caitlin, I mean. She was different when you were around. More... present. Like she'd stopped being a ghost herself."
"So did I." The honesty surprised me. "But she never really stopped loving him."
"Yeah." Cisco's gaze dropped briefly. "I saw that too. Didn't want to say anything because, you know, not my business. But..." He shrugged. "It still sucks."
"It does."
The silence stretched between us—not uncomfortable, just heavy with things that didn't need to be said.
"Look," Cisco finally continued, "I know we're mostly work friends. Lab stuff, consulting, whatever. But if you want to grab food later—no work talk, just hanging out—I'm around. Friends don't let friends mope alone."
The offer was unexpected. Genuinely kind in a way I hadn't prepared for.
"Big Belly Burger?"
"Obviously." He grinned. "Their triple stack is basically therapy in sandwich form."
I almost smiled. "Sure."
The restaurant was crowded with the after-work rush.
We claimed a corner booth and ordered with the deliberate excess of people eating their feelings. Two triple stacks each. Curly fries. Milkshakes that probably contained more calories than I'd burned in the past week.
"Okay," Cisco said, unwrapping his first burger with reverence, "ground rules. No STAR Labs talk. No Harvest discussion. No..." He gestured vaguely. "No heavy stuff. Just food and whatever random topics seem interesting."
"What qualifies as interesting?"
"Movies. Games. Which Star Trek captain is objectively best—which is Picard, by the way, don't even try to argue Kirk."
"I've never actually watched Star Trek."
Cisco's expression shifted to genuine horror. "You've never... how is that possible? Were you raised in a bunker? Did your parents hate joy?"
"Just never came up." The lie was smoother than it should have been—Harrison Griffin's memories included some Trek exposure, but nothing comprehensive enough to fake expertise.
"We're fixing that. Immediately. Next week, my place, we're doing a TNG marathon." He pointed a fry at me. "And don't give me the 'too busy' excuse. Nobody's too busy for Picard."
The casual assumption of future plans—of continued friendship beyond professional obligation—struck me harder than I'd expected. Cisco wasn't offering charity or pity. He was treating me like someone he genuinely wanted to spend time with.
When was the last time anyone wanted that?
I couldn't remember.
"Fine," I said. "But if it's terrible, I'm blaming you."
"It won't be terrible. It's literally the best science fiction ever produced by human beings." He bit into his burger with the satisfaction of someone who'd won an important argument. "You'll thank me later."
The conversation wandered from there. Movies I'd never seen. Video games I'd never played. Pop culture references that required careful navigation to avoid revealing gaps in Harrison Griffin's supposed history.
But beneath the surface-level banter, something else was happening. The hollow feeling that had dominated my chest since Caitlin's choice was... not gone, exactly. Just smaller. Less all-encompassing.
Cisco talked about his family. His brother's issues. The complications of being the smart one in a household that valued other things. He didn't ask about my family—seemed to understand that some doors weren't meant to be opened.
I listened. Ate. Let the noise of the restaurant wash over me.
It wasn't healing. But it wasn't nothing either.
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